Free Stepbrother Catfish: The Complete Series by Izzy Sweet Page B

water stays warm. I don’t even know how many minutes have gone by, but I do eventually realize I should probably find something to wash myself with. Water itself just isn’t going to cut it.
    I look around and notice there is shelving built into the wall within arm’s reach and it’s loaded with bottles. The first bottle I grab is clearly meant for a man. I pop the top and sniff it. It smells just like Andrew. Cool and crisp, I remember smelling it as I buried my face into his neck. I start to warm. I quickly close the bottle and put it back before the trip down memory lane gets me so worked up I have to turn this lovely shower into a cold one.
    My eyes scan the bottles. The top shelves are loaded with dark bottles labeled with bold letters, all very masculine. The bottom shelf, however, is covered with more feminine bottles. Slender bottles, featuring pictures of flowers and flowy script.
    Why does Andrew have products that are clearly meant for a woman? Did he plan on me being here? Or does he keep it for someone else?
    The thought of another woman almost sends me into a jealous fit. Just imagining anyone else touching him, anyone else staying here and using this shower, makes me see red. Thankfully, my brain decides to step up and reason kicks in. If there was another woman, she’s no longer around. I’m here now and I was the best night he ever had.
    Andrew is a notorious playboy. Every weekend, he has a new girl on his arm and in his bed. I shouldn’t take it personal. What’s in the past is in the past. And right now, it’s to my benefit.
    I grab up a bottle, it’s fairly heavy and feels full. I pop the top and it smells amazing. I check the label and it says it’s a shampoo scented with awapuhi, whatever that is. I lather my hair up, rinse it out, and then condition it. By the time I step out of the shower, I feel soft and clean, and ready to start snooping.
    I start in Andrew’s closet and help myself to one of his shirts. I choose a blue, long sleeve dress shirt. I roll up the sleeves and wear it as a dress. The shirt is a little short, the bottom hem hitting me at mid-thigh, but it works. Then I start to poke around in his drawers.
    There is a disappointing lack of personal items in Andrew’s drawers. There are plenty of cuff links, ties, watches, and pins, but I find nothing personal. Nothing that seems sentimental or gives me a clue to what kind of person he really is.
    After coming up empty handed in the closet, I move on to the bedroom. I check his night stands, underneath his bed, and his dresser. There’s nothing of interest. I don’t even find a stash of porn. It’s seriously weird.
    Where are all his mementos?
    After searching the living room, perusing his blockbuster DVD collection, and checking out his kitchen utensils, I end up more confused than anything else. The refrigerator is completely bare. There’s not even a packet of ketchup or leftover Chinese takeout. Thankfully the sink dispenses water or I’d be completely out of luck.
    Andrew’s apartment is clean and luxurious, but it feels somehow sterile. There’s nothing in the apartment laying claim that it’s even his. No pictures, no personal items with names, I can’t find a thing that points to him or shows that he’s even the owner. How can someone even live like this?
    I’m not necessarily a sentimental creature myself but I do acquire things as I live every day. The things I acquire no doubt give little clues about me, my personal life, and how I go about. I know in my own apartment there are old receipts, pictures of my friends during our days in school, and things from my mother. I may even have an old teddy bear or two, to snuggle up to on those nights that feel lonelier than others.
    If you were to snoop around my apartment, you would eventually come to the conclusion that I lived there. Such a conclusion seems impossible to reach in Andrew’s apartment. I’m almost willing to bet it actually takes a great deal of